Mute
by Sorrow Personified
Summary: An "Amadeus" fic. After Mozart's death, Salieri cries out to him in remembrance and sorrow. Monologue, from Salieri's PoV. Short and, er, bitter.


I am mute.

You have silenced me, silenced me with your music, silenced me with your divinity, with the endless beauty of your music. You are confined to your manuscript, imprisoned to your stave, shackled by the endless, sometimes narrow track, on which is borne your music.

What beauty you could create if your boundaries were limitless!

You are eternal. You shall be there when the stars dim from the sky, when the sun burns itself out, when the seas dry up. You shall last longer than the Gods, for you are immortal in the very best sense; you need not a body to prove your worth. Unlike God, our "_father"_, we do not even need to think of you to bask in your beauty. If you are given a voice, you can prove to us, to the world, your worth.

And you have.

But none so much as me.

My head echoes with your music; strings and voices, both haughty and accusing, live now in my head. My heart trembles with your dirges, great, sweeping dirges that knock my breath from my body and bring me to my knees. I want this pain, I wallow in it, I want to drown in it. It is a baptism for me, this pain. You are killing me, dear Mozart, softly, subtly, but not silently.

You have ruined me.

Look at me. I am ridden with palsy, my face is stained with age, my fingers so gnarled and twisted that it is a pain to 'grace' the ivory of the piano-forte. I am ridiculed by children on the street, I have no more connections with the Emperor, nor have I any illustrious ties to my name. I am not remembered. I cannot be remembered, for I am dead. More dead than you will ever be. Your music is still played, throughout the world. "Ah, Mozart!" They weep, "Poor boy! Dead so young, such a genius!" How little they know you. You do not want to be mourned, do you? You want to be celebrated!

You are.

Your wife, your "dear" Constanze searched throughout Europe for others to finish your Requiem mass. And they did, they completed your Lacrimosa that you were set to start upon, and a fine job it was, too. But nothing like you could have done. I was angry when I heard your wife was going to get another to 'finish' it. For me, it _was_ finished, once you were dead. I did not want your divinity to be diluted with another's pure, utter mediocrity. It was, however, and I was powerless to stop it.

The _confutatis_ will always be ours, though, for it is where you ended your divinity, and it was where I ended my contempt of your divinity. It is your unwitting accusation of me. I repeat it every day in my head;

__

Confutatis maledictis,

When the wicked are confounded…when I am confounded, confounded by your genius, your beauty, your empathy…

__

Flammis acribus addictis…

Consigned to flames of woe…you asked me, then, that question, do you remember, that question I answered in one breath. "A fire which never dies. Burning one forever?" You asked me if I believed in it. I couldn't tell you how much I did, so I answered, "Oh, yes." You told me it was strange, but I saw that fire, that quenchless fire, that night. I saw it in your eyes, your hungry, inspired, strangely bright eyes. It spread to me, and it ran up and down my spine, down my fingers, and it poured into your music, danced gleefully around your great Requiem. I believe in that fire, Mozart, for it seizes me still.

__

Voca me cum benedictis…

Call me among the blessed…and here – your last plea to God to set you among the angels in His House above. He, did, didn't He? I know He did. He loves you, Mozart, for you were His mouth, His instrument, His reincarnation.

I still see your son, Karl, about with Constanze. She married again, after you died. She and that Danish politician, Georg Nikolaus von Nissen. I am so glad, Mozart, that I was the one that last spoke to you, that your last words belong to me, and me only. I am sure your wife cared for you immensely, but she never knew you, did she? She could never even begin to fathom how you worked. She was your wife, and I am sure she was a good one. She was not a partner, though, was she? Constanze loved you for your quirks, not for your talent, not for your mind. I knew you, and I was the only one to know you, in your last hours.

The dirges rise again in my heart; how can I stop them? How can I silence your music in my mind forever? How can I be with you again, to apologise? Perhaps death is my only way out; I cannot think any more without your mournful music clouding my thoughts like cataracts. I wish to be among the blessed, with you, Mozart, but if I cannot be with the blessed, I wish to be free from them.

But for now I am mediocrity personified, not knowing whether to flaunt my 'talent' or hide it. 

I am ill, Mozart, and your music is killing me.

I am old, Mozart, and your music is aging me.

I am mute, Mozart, and your music is putting words into my mouth. 


End file.
